Monster
by Steelfeathers
Summary: It took two months in a fake prison cell for her to realize she had fallen prey not to a courteous madman, but to a monster. Post-imprisonment. The road to recovery--and acceptance-- is never an easy one.
1. Chapter 1

Monster

"_Sparkling angel, I couldn't see_  
_Your dark intentions, your feelings for me_."

* * *

Towards the end she began to think that freedom would only come with death.

The idea did not dawn on her immediately, of course-- the instinctual desire for life had forestalled all such thoughts in that vein for the longest time, reducing it to no more than a hushed whisper issuing from the dark, unknowable well in her soul. But when the time came when she could no longer tell if it was night or day beyond those horrid four walls (or even if such things as night or day even existed in the first place)-- when the time came that she could no longer remember how many times her head had been held down in a bowl to the point of drowning, when the rat that occasionally appeared in her cell was greeted with all the warmth of a long lost friend-- the truth rang out through the hollow pale of her soul like a slow, knowing death knell. A requiem for freedom; the numbing cold of silence.

During the first few weeks of her imprisonment she managed to hold out some vague hope of rescue, clinging to it and wrapping it around her like a veil to keep her mind apart from the beatings, the water torture, the awful sound of shackles banging closed around her wrists and ankles with bruising force. She saw the blood, her blood, as if from far away, regarding it with detachment. Disbelief. Surely such horrors could not really be occurring, certainly not to her-- at any moment the man reclining in the shadows across the table from her would let out a barking laugh and declare the whole thing some bad joke. Then Gordon would come in, Gordon with his friendly smile and his face free of blood, and he would clap her on the shoulder and tell her of the great show he had lined up that night just for her while the chains binding her to the chair were stripped away. Yes, Gordon would be there, and everything would be alright again.

But the man behind the lights was speaking again, calling her a liar, a whore, and the man with the iron hands was shoving her face beneath the water as she struggled for air, needing to breathe so badly she thought her lungs would burst, but he wouldn't let her up, wouldn't let her _breathe_.

Okay, so maybe Gordon wouldn't come waltzing through the door. Although surely, _surely_, someone at the Finger or the Nose would look at the surveillance tapes and realize that she hadn't done all those awful things they accused her of. They would realize she was innocent and let her go, let her pull her head up out of the slimy water and relieve the terrible pain in her chest with a gasping breath that would banish the black stars bursting at the edges of her vision. Then they would give her back her clothes and send her on her way, and Gordon would be waiting outside for her, Gordon with a bandage on the corner of his mouth, and everything would be alright again.

But the nasally man was jerking her arms over her head again and shackling her wrists to the thick chains dangling from the ceiling, and suddenly there was nothing but the shrieking agony of scalding water cutting into her skin like a spray of razorblades, tearing into the livid wounds on her back, tearing into the veil of denial in her mind.

Not Gordon, then. Gordon wouldn't be coming.

--_dead dead dead, a black magic bag thrust over his head and vanishing him from existence_--

But even without Gordon there was still V. Even if they didn't let her out, surely V would come for her. V, who had saved her at the radio station and risked his own safety to bring a near-stranger into his home. V, who had given his bed to her and slept on a cot night after night, waking her every morning with the smell of eggs and toast and waffles and sausage, all freshly made by those terribly scarred hands while their owner flounced about the kitchen in a frilly apron, humming absently.

Knives flashing like a demon's kiss, cloak flaring out behind him like the wings of some dark angel, he would sweep into the room just before the man with the iron hands shoved her head down in the bowl again, easily laying out her tormenters like sacks of flour before they even had time to shout. Then he would slash the chains cutting cruelly into her limbs, lift her into his arms, and carry her back to the Shadow Gallery, far away from the cold and damp and the silence echoing with the ghosts of screams. Yes, that was it. Any moment now V would come, V would save her from another session with the bowl of water.

But once more the iron hand clamped around the back of her neck and plunged her down beneath the icy surface, and she knew that V would not be coming. He might have already been captured and thrown into a cell much like hers. He might have been dead.

But deep in the recesses of her heart, she knew that V would not be so easily captured or killed. No. He was alive and well as always. He simply didn't care enough to save her.

One by one all her illusions were stripped away from her. The veil enshrouding her mind was rent in two; the crystal around her heart shattered. And all the horrors came pouring in. At the very last there was nothing left her, nothing but the certainty of agony and the looming specter of death. Nothing...expect Valerie. No cozy flat, no job at the BTN, no Gordon, no V. Only a letter scrawled in pencil on toilet paper, rolled into a tight little scroll and tucked into rat's hole. A flimsy little remnant of paper covered in haphazard sentences, misshapen letters-- a message of love so simple, so powerful, so aching in its stark despair and sharp-edged hope that it sank into her heart like a dagger, rending her asunder and building her back up again with untouchable strength as tears streamed from her hardened eyes.

And in those final days, even Valerie went away-- Valerie, a woman she would never meet and who might have been facing her end before a firing squad at that very moment--leaving only her words and her inch. Just an inch. Freedom.

A freedom which she knew, watching her cell door open for the final time, carried the cost of her life. Such a heavy price it had seemed before, yet suddenly it became as if nothing at all. She would hold her head high as they led her out behind the chemical sheds-- she would not cry or beg or scream for them to spare her life. They could beat her, rape her, kill her, but nothing they could do would ever touch that inch. Within that inch she was free, and more powerful than they could ever imagine.

But they didn't take her out behind the chemical sheds and shoot her. The nasally man left her cell door open and walked away. Freedom? No, it couldn't be. Not there, in that horrid place. Her only escape would come through death. But the door was still open and no one was shouting at her to stand up, no one came to drag her to her doom.

The realization came slowly at first, dawning on her piece by wrenching piece. First there was the guard at the end of the hall-- or rather, what she had taken to be a guard. Her heart turned over in her chest as her gaze drifted to his face and saw nothing but seams and latex and blank, unseeing eyes, causing the world around her to tilt and skew dangerously. At first she scarcely dared to believe it. It had to be another trick, some other game to torture her mind.

But then she reached out a hand and eased open the unlocked door at the end of the hall, and something inside her splintered. It was like looking at a picture of a vase and suddenly seeing two faces-- the damp, dark world behind her did not vanish, but suddenly its presence in her mind inverted, becoming something else entirely. No longer a prison, but a set piece. The backdrop for a play whose lead male role suddenly appeared before her, tugging his gloves back into place (--_iron hands, hot like a furnace, gripping the back of her neck_--) and greeting her amicably.

The Shadow Gallery. She was in the Shadow Gallery, and had been for two unbearably dark months. There were no prison guards or interrogators or torturers to hold her head beneath the water, only V. Her long-awaited guardian angel had been there all along.

As she stared at him, his picture inverted too. Gone was the silly, eccentric, friendly, well-read companion she had known, and in his place stood the essence of distilled evil masquerading as someone who had claimed to be her friend. Her unearthly courage evaporated like a drop of spilled tea under the comparatively bright lights of the Shadow Gallery, leaving her trembling, weak, bloody, bruised, and shattered.

Every memory of him hurt like shards of glass being shoved down her throat. The pancakes, the movies, the books, the long hours discussing artwork or debating a line of poetry. It had all been a game. All of it. How could she have ever burrowed down in his sheets and giggled quietly at the thought of sleeping in his bed? How could she have ever thought his flowery aprons endearing or been touched by his thoughtfulness for making her breakfast every morning?

She had regretted betraying him all throughout her stay with Gordon and her imprisonment--

--_all a lie, only painted doors and recorded voices, only a tame rat in a cage and V's gloved hand tossing dog food through the hole in the door, V's hand trying to drown her, V's arms dragging her back to her cell, V's boot kicking her unmercilessly in the stomach as she curled and writhed like a pathetic, mewling worm on the concrete floor_--

She had lain awake at night in Gordon's bed hoping that he had gotten away, hoping that she had not doomed him by succumbing to her fear. V's not really all that bad, she had thought.

How stupid she had been. How naively trusting. If only she had realized that the thing she had glimpsed lurking within him the night she had learned of Prothero's death (--_murder--) _was not merely a figment of her imagination, nurtured by her paranoia and fear.

Oh how very right she had been when he had calmly replied that he planned to kill more people.

V wasn't just a terrorist. He was a monster.

........

Author's Note: I seem to have a thing for PTSD and bucket loads of angst, as my fans from 'Instability' will probably note. I feel so evil. MUWAHAHAHAHA!!

Now that I've gotten that out of my system, on to the important info. This may stay a one shot, although at the moment I have all sorts of ideas brewing for a long-ish fic about Evey's recovery period (which we didn't see in either the graphic novel or the movie) and how she came to be grateful for what V did. The movie made it seem like she came down off the roof and suddenly realized how glad she was some madman had tortured her for month. Honestly, people, it doesn't work that way. She would be seriously screwed up both mentally and physically for a long time and would have a lot of inner demons to excise before she could move on. This story will, I hope, be able to delve into that angst-ridden process of healing and self-discovery.

If I do continue this from a one-shot, please be aware that I will mix elements from the book and movie as I see fit.

/end note


	2. Chapter 2

She didn't remember much of what happened up on the roof. There was only the feeling of cool, cleansing rain sluicing down her skin and a brief moment of wild, uninhibited joy similar to what she supposed wolves felt when running through pine forests, or what eagles felt challenging the tallest of mountains. Lightning flashed through the sky, and no longer was she Evey Hammond-- she _was_ that furious bolt of raw energy, unstoppable and untamable. Untouchable. Utterly free.

But then the moment dwindled and faded, as all moments are like to do. The physical world finally caught up to her racing spirit, forcefully re-introducing it to the sickly, filthy body it was attached to, breaking her from the ecstatic trance with pain and nausea and fatigue. And cold. She hadn't felt it at first, but the rain was cold, tracing icy rivulets through the film of dirt covering her skin and raising goose bumps on her arms and bare legs. Against her will she shivered. And sneezed. And shivered again.

The clouds grumbled, far and distant, but the thunderstorm had apparently thrashed itself out and no more lightning appeared. Gone was the fierceness, the fire, the freedom, the uncontrollable power of the storm, dissipating away like mist, and a melancholy downpour slunk into its place, thoroughly wetting her soul and weighing down her spirit with dampness. The rain, not an instant before her orgasmic release, had become a damp, leaden thing. And it made her frightfully cold with water and loss.

Reluctant to turn away--rooted to the spot as if she had grown up from the stone--she stared numbly out at the drenched city, shivering gently. She couldn't have moved even if she wanted to, not even to sway with weariness, not even flinch when she felt something soft and heavy draped over her shoulders, shielding her from the mercenary rain. A black cloak. Thick wool. Almost a foot too long.

V' cloak.

Slowly she became aware of a solid body standing beside her, radiating heat like a furnace. An arm went gingerly around her shoulders, coaxing her to lean against a rain-soaked black doublet and the muscled chest beneath (--_a fallen angel taking her beneath its wing_--). She didn't resist. And though she knew that, if left to her own devices, she would have stayed up on that roof, unable and unwilling to move, until she mummified and turned into some sort of morbid statue, it took but the slightest pressure for the arm around her shoulders to steer her back towards the lift. Her feet moved mechanically, detached from her body. Her ear, pressed into a shoulder, listened without much interest to the heart beating _lub-dub_ somewhere deep beneath thick black fabric and hard planes of muscles. Its rhythm, far from being strong and sure, fluttered wildly, unevenly, as though a panicked raven were trying to beat its way out from the cage of ribs. Some distant part of her mind filed that away, but most of her was too tired to puzzle out the oddity.

The light abruptly dimmed as she entered the lift. A black-gloved hand (--_can't breathe-- oh god I need to breathe-- let go, please let go-- please please __**please**__!_--) entered her peripheral vision and flipped a lever. The doors slid closed; the lift clanked, rattled, groaned, and began to descend back into the depths, the sound of rain abruptly cut off by the walls of stone that reached up to enclose her.

She wasn't shivering anymore, but the arm behind her back showed no signs of dropping away. Though she knew she should have leaned away-- though a furious, snarling, thrashing thing inside of her wanted her to tear herself from the embrace-- she couldn't find the energy to stand upright on her own. Besides, the body she was leaning against was warm, warm enough that some of its heat had begun to seep through her skin and settle into her bones in a most welcome manner.

Maybe it was that warmth that finally did what boiling rage and hyperventilation could not. The numbness in her mind grew and spread, becoming a warm blanket that wrapped around her limbs and padded her head in wool. She felt herself leaning more heavily against the sturdy body with its fluttering heart and sodden black doublet, sensing the mask that twitched in her direction, tilting down to regard the top of her shaved head. She ignored it just like everything else, watching the concrete scroll by beyond the gilded ironwork of the lift through half-lidded eyes, much too stiff and exhausted to resist the warmth and the heaviness that came with it.

Much more suddenly than she would have guessed, her vision grayed and her brain lost contact with the rest of her body. Distantly she heard a voice call 'Evey!' with something like alarm, but then there was only welcome blackness.

* * *

Despite what any number of paper-back romances and soap operas might have to say on the subject, most women Evey knew-- including herself-- did not faint on a daily basis. Never having fallen victim to the unwilling state of unconsciousness without a good reason (like breaking her leg when she was six, or being clocked over the head with a gun) was something she had taken pride in. She was an intelligent, independent woman, with not inconsiderable strength of her own due to long nights at the gym-- she did not _swoon_, she did not _faint_.

But she could, as she discovered during her 'detainment', pass out cold on the stone floor when the pain of the whip against her back became too much to bear, or when her head had been held beneath the water for just a little too long. In fact, a state of partial delirium became an everyday-- and, eventually, almost constant-- occurrence for her. So much for being strong. So much for being different from everyone else.

How arrogant she had been to assume that agony would somehow feel different to her, that she would somehow be above it, surpass it...or, at the very least, be able to soldier on through it. But pain was pain was pain, and poor little Evey Hammond had had more than her merely-human synapses could bear heaped upon her day after never-ending day. And when they finally gave out, she would find herself drifting through a sort of haze, unable to stand or struggle or even grunt as she was dragged back to her cell and kicked inside with a steel-toed boot.

But _this_ time, the blackness that claimed her was the velvet of a starless summer night, featureless and deep and silent as the ocean. _This_ time she did not drift through a fog that partially--but not entirely-- shielded her from the pain and cold, sobbing with despair as it lifted only minutes later, depositing her back into merciless reality. Now, even with her mind no longer controlling her body, Evey somehow knew that she had drifted into a true, healing sleep, one that rocked her gently far beneath the surface of that warm ocean, so deep, so dark, and deeper still, her back sinking into the yielding sand at the bottom. And for once, she found herself able to breathe in the water, the liquid blackness, without pain. So tired....

Somewhere far away she heard someone whispering. The voice was so familiar, and so torn with a soul-wrenching agony that even swaddled in the ocean's embrace she longed with an intensity that frightened her to be able to weep for that voice. But she couldn't cry, not any more. She had cried out all the tears she had during her first few weeks in the cell, and when still the torture and the terrible, mocking words continued regardless of her wails and pleas and cries of anguish, she found that she simply didn't have any tears left. Tears were worthless. They did nothing. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

The voice went away again for a while, leaving Evey to simply drift. But when it came back, minutes or hours or centuries later, it no longer came as a whisper, but as music. The Voice was singing, singing so softly that she could barely hear the words, singing something small and indescribably sad, like a lost child crying over the body of a dead baby bird held so delicately in his cupped hands, willing it to _live_ and yet knowing it was forever broken and beyond reach. But where was the baby bird?

For a little while Evey drifted deeper, and the Voice faded beyond hearing. Yet even surrounded by comfort, her pleasantly warm ocean was tainted by a sense of melancholy that brushed against her slumbering mind like a niggling current of icy water. Not all was as it should be-- something dreadful had happened, something that disturbed her even in sleep--

(_'there's no escape for you, Ms. Hammod'_)

--But she couldn't quite remember what it was. And frankly, she was too content to care. The Voice had disturbed her with its plucking reality of despair, but now that she could no longer hear it she could pretend that it did not exist-- that whatever had caused that despair with just another drifting fragment of dream, inconsequential.

But then a hand settled on the upturned side of her face, its touch as gentle as a moth's wing, jabbing through the darkness like a sudden beam of light, like a single strand of fishing line pulling at the edge of her mind, tugging her towards a world she did not want to reenter. That's where the cold was. That's where the pain was. She didn't want to go there.

Yet for all her fears, she found it easy to drift away again beneath that touch. It did not demand-- it did not stroke or pinch or slap. It simply rested there, covering her from jaw to temple, warm and oh-so-soft. Strong. Controlled. Protecting. It would have been comforting if something about it did not seem so familiar, if something inside of her did not recognize it and recoil away from it with a shriek of horror.

The smell, that was it. The hand did not smell like a hand but like something else, something familiar, something both reassuring and terrifying.

Come to think of it, the hand didn't feel like a hand either-- it was too smooth, too...strange. Not unpleasant, merely unusual.

_What was that smell?_

The hand lifted away, and Evey instantly missed its warmth. The air that rushed in to take its place was frigid in comparison. There was movement about her, and suddenly something soft and heavy was draped across her and tucked in around her shoulders. A blanket, she realized. The hand came back, hovering just above her skin, the very tip of one finger stirring the fine hairs on her cheek--

(--_a harsh, resounding slap full across the side of her face, one that brought tears of shame to her eyes as someone leered at her from the shadows and spat 'Whore'_--)

--yet after a moment of hesitation it retracted without making contact with her skin. There was no discernable sound, no footsteps or creaking of doors, but after a moment Evey knew that the Voice that gone.

Only then did the last vestiges of her conscious mind recognize the unmistakable smell.

The Voice's hand had been gloved in leather.

* * *

It was yet another smell that woke her, this one much more appetizing.

When Evey finally climbed her way back into the land of the living, she was vaguely surprised to find herself surrounded by towering columns of books. Since when did her cell have books? Books were 'illegal', 'immoral', and more importantly, a mental escape that could possibly distract her from concentrating on being terrified and in pain. The man behind the desk, having made it his mission to ensure that she never for an instant forgot where she was or what horrors she faced, would never have allowed them to put books in her cell. And so many! The last time she had seen such numbers stacked together it one place was....

....was the first time she had awoken in her bed (_V's_ bed) in the Shadow Gallery.

She blinked slowly at the books, feeling something immensely painful begin to claw its way up from her belly and lodge itself in her throat, the last vestiges of the blissful ignorance of sleep sizzling away under the revelation. Of course. The Shadow Gallery. The last stronghold of culture. The lair of a terrorist and madman. Her home for three months and her personal circle of hell for two. And possibly more important than any of those-- V's house.

She couldn't hate the artwork or the books. They were inanimate objects, unfeeling and uncaring. The columns around her, so very much like the bars of a cage, would have looked on with equal indifference whether she cried or laughed, fell victim to spontaneous combustion or rape. They could not love her, hate her, pity her. They made no promises and would break none...unlike their owner.

The Shadow Gallery. V's house. The very thought caused her to bubble over with sudden, hysterical giggles, knuckles pressed against her mouth to keep the sound from passing her teeth._ 'V's house_'-- a quaint little cottage with neatly trimmed hedges and a white picket fence, tended by a monster who tipped his hat and acted the gentleman while his basement held a torture chamber and piles of skulls, the walls lined with knives and vials of poison and so many pairs of black leather gloves---

The giggles died as suddenly as they came, disappearing as quickly as flipping a light switch. She was in V's house, apparently playing the guest again instead of the prisoner, if the feather pillow beneath her head was anything to go by. She fingered the thick quilt covering her, grimacing. Once she would have given an embarrassed little twitch at the thought of something so hideously feminine--covered with clashing bright colors and embroidered with birds and flowers (was that a kitten?)--appealing to the notorious terrorist. Maybe she would even have thought it sweet and endearing, evidence of a softer, human side, much like his aprons and oven mitts and, well, everything except his day-to-day clothes, which remained dark and unadorned. But not now. Not when she knew what it truly meant.

Overcome by a sudden surge of loathing, Evey bolted upright despite the protesting of the thick scabs covering her back, violently throwing the quilt from her and pushing at it with her feet until it slithered off the edge of the bed and out of sight. Good riddens.

The white sheets had also been dislodged from around her shoulders and currently sat pooled in her lap, leaving her battered body uncovered for inspection. Or at least, it _would_ have been if not for the long sleeve cotton shirt and the drawstring terry-cloth pants she found herself currently dressed in. Evey wanted to feel outraged at the thought that he had stripped her naked while she lay helpless and unconscious, but how was that any different from stripping her naked while she was fully awake and aware? He had done that too, and without a grain of remorse. If it had been anyone else, she would have let them have it from both guns for taking such liberties. But the point, the whole _reason_ for yelling and screaming and accusing in the first place was to have the satisfaction of watching the one receiving the verbal beating wince and recoil and sigh with regret, knowing that the sharp-edged words had caused pangs of remorse which would pain the one they plagued almost as much as the one screaming had been pained.

But that wouldn't work with V, because V wasn't any normal person. She had called him evil, she had called him sick, pouring so much venom, so much _hate_ into the words that they had cut her tongue and split her throat as effectively as one of his knives. But he didn't so much as flinch. He didn't waver, didn't pause, didn't turn away with a wince of emotional pain. More so even than watching her physical pain, he had watched her mental pain, the agony of his betrayal, with a serenity that was almost indifference. She had trusted him. He had betrayed her-- and he didn't care.

_'I see you'_ she whispered in a singsong voice, looking towards the cracked door through which the smells and sounds of cooking floated. _'I know what you are._'

V didn't hear her, of course. That was fine. She didn't need him to. Merely speaking the truth aloud had left her strangely peaceful, indifferent. Numb. She knew what kind of monster lurked behind that ever-cheerful facade, and never again would she be fooled into thinking the mask his true face. The spell was broken--she was free.

Not wanting to wait for him to come to her, Evey decided to go to him. She would not cower beneath the covers and hope that the monster didn't see her-- she would not give him that power over her. But merely the act of swinging one leg over the side of the bed left her curiously breathless. Reeling, clutching at the mattress to regain her balance, she sucked in a deep breath through her nose and maneuvered her other leg around to join the first. 'There, see? That wasn't so hard,' she insisted to the two feet that resembled nothing so much as two dead fish against the blood-red persian rug. Wisely they remained silent.

With a short grunt of effort she pushed up from the bed. Or, at least, she tried. Much to her dismay, she could only put her full weight on her legs for an instant before all her energy evaporated and she collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent. Chest heaving, she waited for the black stars to fade from the edges of her vision before she opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. They were trembling from exertion.

Her brow furrowed in confusion and a spark of annoyance. Why was she suddenly so weak? With measured detachment, she spread the fingers of her hand and began to examine it, noting the protruding wrist bones and the skeletal fingers. Yes, she had lost a great deal of weight, but surely, _surely_ not enough to leave her as weak as a newborn kitten, unable to even climb out of bed? She had walked across the roof the night before completely unaided, and she had not felt even a fraction of the strain then that she felt now.

Abandoning her scrutiny of her hand, she bent over as much as her bruised body would allow and pulled up the leg of her pants, exposing her ankle and calf. Or, at least, what should have been her calf. A chill went through her at the sight of the limb. When had it become so _thin_, like a stick, like, like....like a bone?

Shivering suddenly, though the room was far from cold, she let the soft fabric drop from her fingers, never so glad to see her own skin disappear. Obviously her strength from last night had been an illusion caused by adrenaline. There was no way she could have imagined walking so far (when had twenty feet become so far?) in her current state unaided.

Her internal musings were interrupted by the sound of the door handle rattling. The one tiny sound, so quiet and unobtrusive, caused her to bolt upright, heart flying into her throat.

V.

She wanted to sob and laugh and scream all at once. You wanted a guardian angel, Evey? Well here he is! How splendidly he's been caring for you! How _thoughtful_ he is to signal his presence by 'accidentally' rattling the door knob!

"_Evey?"_

As though the sound of her name was some sort of password, every hysterical thought abruptly shut down. Numbness descended once more, taking away all feeling but the need to retch at the almost noxious smell of food.

She didn't reply; she didn't know if she could. But V obviously took that as a sign he could enter and shouldered his way through the door, bearing a tray. The sight of the tall, dark figure striding into the room threatened to send her heart into frenzied palpations again (--_the nightmare made real, the monster boldly striding out of the closet_--), so she tried to convince herself that she wasn't the least bit afraid of him.

'In the dark he looks like some sort of ghost, like an avenging wraith-- now he just looks faded and vaguely pathetic.'

'He's just an evil, psychotic man wearing a mask. He's not a demon or an angel or anything else, he's just a stupid man playing dress up.'

But it didn't work. Funny how she could be both numb and detached and frightened all at the same time.

"Ah, good, you're already awake. I didn't want to have to wake you, but I didn't think you would want your soup to get cold."

There were so many things she wanted to say, but in the face of his cheerful attitude her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth and she suddenly couldn't remember a single one of them. So she settled for simply nodding as he crossed the room with measured, confident strides and set the breakfast tray on the foot of her bed, seemingly ignoring the disheveled covers. She trembled at his proximity, her skin trying to crawl its way off her bones.

(.._I see you...)_

Only after V had arranged the tray to his liking did he step back away from the bed, turning to face her calmly with his hands clasped in front of him (--_the nasally man was there again, capturing his fist in his other hand, feet spread wide, sneering at her as she lay curled up on the floor_--). Choosing to ignore him for the moment, Evey turned to examine the contents of the tray, not the least bit hungry but trying to think of the most creative way she could to dispose of the food. She didn't want to eat anything he had made, anything he had touched. Stomp on it, flush it down the toilet, fling it against the wall-- anything but eat it and thereby accept his 'kindness', the way a whipped dog would grovel for a pat on the head.

But to her surprise, she found not a veritable feast but rather a single bowl of thick, steaming soup (likely potato, from the color and smell), a glass of ice water, a glass of milk and, to her surprise, a single unidentifiable pill. That was all.

Evey turned to looked up at him, her face the picture of confusion.

The frozen mask tilted towards the tray.

"Leek and potato soup, milk, water, and Vicodin," he explained, the familiar voice raising goosebumps on her limbs as if he were listing all the ways to cause unendurable agony without causing death rather than listing the contents of her breakfast.

Controlling the shivers that tried to break out once more, Evey focused on the single unfamiliar item.

"Vicodin?"

"Yes." for an instant V hesitated, seeming to wince, but the moment came and went so quickly she was certain her addled brain must have imagined it (--_monsters aren't afraid of little girls_--). "It's a very strong pain killer, but unless taken with food it will probably cause you to become nauseous."

"But I feel alright," she protested, averting her gaze. It was mostly true-- the thought of taking her medicine like a good little girl from the man who had purposefully, methodically, caused her agony day after day hurt like a sword plunged through her gut, paining her more than any physical injury.

V gave a slow nod of acquiescence.

"Perhaps at the moment, but I assure you that the process of changing the bandages on your back would be a most arduous experience without it."

Evey stared at him, understanding the logic behind what he said. There was no point in her playing the martyr and suffering more than she had to. After all, she had already learned that pain does not make you stronger, only weaker, stripping you of your humanity and reducing you to your baser instincts. It didn't even surprise her that he had already attended to the vicious wounds marring her back-- he was methodical, obsessive, and as thorough and precise as a surgeon. She was back to playing the role of the guest and he to filling the role of the host. Treating her injuries once again fell under his purview.

It made perfect sense for her to take the pill. It would probably even put her to sleep, which would be an added bonus of allowing her to escape back to that blissfully peaceful dream world where she didn't have to feel pain or remember that she had been ensnared in the web of the most insidious spider of them all. Yes, a sane, rational, logical person would have gratefully tossed it back with a swig of water and dug into the meal that her shrunken stomach begged for her to fill it with.

Evey turned her gaze back to the tray, delicately reaching forward to pluck up the tiny pill between her thumb and forefinger, regarding it with flat, blank eyes. V didn't even so much as shift from his position, obviously intending to stay and watch her eat.

Without deigning to spare him a glance, she extended her arm again and unceremoniously dropped the pill into the soup. Then, possessed of all the emotion of someone turning the page in a book, she grabbed one edge of the tray and flipped it, bowl and glasses and all, off the edge of the bed.

V remained perfectly composed, stolid and silent, as the food he had prepared went crashing to the floor, merely watching the glasses shatter and leek and onion soup splatter across the irreplaceable persian carpet with apparent disinterest. Only when he finally looked up at Evey did she speak, leaning towards him with stony intent, eyes fierce and blazing with cold, diamond-hard fire.

"I think I would like to have my bandages changed now, thank you," she said quietly.

A soft sigh escaped the mask, so low she might have mistaken if for a breath of wind if there had been any window in the Shadow Gallery for wind to creep through.

And even the indignity of needing to be picked up and carried to the bathroom could not erase the tiny thrill of victory that single sigh had caused.

* * *

Author's Note: It's 2 am. I really should be doing my homework right now instead of working on this, but oh well.

Hope you guys like this one—I personally think this might be the most compelling tapestry of complex, heart-wrenching emotions I have ever written. I got the chills as I was typing it.

Now let's see if I can top it.


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